


domus

by yogurtgun



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Injury, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pack Bonding, Pack Family, Pining, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Slow Burn, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yogurtgun/pseuds/yogurtgun
Summary: After he's finished investigating the Beast of Beauclair, Geralt realises three things:1) He still loves Regis;2) The Resonance allows him not only to see Dettlaff's memories, but also connect to both vampires' emotions;3) Corvo Bianco is as much of a gift as it is a punishment; now that he has a home he has no family to fill it.Considering these fact, after a failed attempt to retire, Geralt saddles Roach, gets his swords, and sets out on the Path once again.
Relationships: Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 52
Kudos: 492





	domus

**Author's Note:**

> This is a love ode to Regis, Dettlaff, and Geralt. No beta, we die like Syanna.

_**domus** , /ˈdo.mus/, noun: household, family, race_

Time. It escapes Geralt every time he thinks he’s caught it, slipping between his fingers like Yennefer’s silk dresses, sliding like the silver chain of Vesemir’s pendant, a frightened rabbit that’s really a zmei. He has more of it than other people do, but it doesn’t make anything easier. He only feels that he has more to lose.

He’s growing old, Geralt thinks, though the thought doesn’t defeat him as it usual would. Within the Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery, amongst the people whose time has ran out, and paradoxically now they have an infinity of it, cocoon in Regis’ abode, it feels comfortable to admit it. The dead won’t know, and Regis is one of the rare few of his people who would understand such thoughts, if Geralt voiced them. It’s this understanding that allows Geralt to accept them, himself. Strange, how people influence people.

Regis isn’t there, though Geralt has the wight brew. Marlene was a surprise to him, a surprise that’s now cooking regular meals for the Corvo Bianco workers; Geralt isn’t there half the time, and it’d be a shame to waste her prowess. The staff deserves it, in any case. They’ve been working the vineyard long before Geralt came, and now that he’s seen how property is given and taken away at Beauclair, he has a feeling they’ll be there long after him.

It all, inevitably, comes back to time, or Geralt’s lack of it. He isn’t wont to linger on his past, but he remembers storming Stygga castle, Vilgefortz, and losing Regis. It was so long ago, such a horrible nightmare, a toxic concoction of feelings, that he recalls it like through a dream, and one word from Regis could change his whole memory.

The grief was real, at least. The grief, and the sensation of his belly dropping, of losing something valuable he didn’t know he possessed until it was gone. But he has a better memory than most, and he fails to recollect the past through goggles of forgetfulness. He remembers all the nastiness, roughness, the hunger, the pain.

Geralt did not think his emotions would rise again, not so soon, yet relief shook his knees when he first saw Regis again. It was like he stepped out of his memory, only a little grey, and a little tired. But even then, they’d not had proper time to talk. They don’t have any time now either. The rush to stop the slew of murders, Geralt’s contract, and his mortality stand between long nights he wishes to spend doing little else but talking with his friend. After so long, there’s much to say. He isn’t sure if he deserves it but he wants it nonetheless, with such vehement urgency, that he fears what is to come when they do find the Beast, Regis’ blood brother, Dettlaff.

Regis has only pleaded his case, and remained tactfully quiet on his personal opinions. Geralt wonders if that is because Regis understands that before Geralt would have never let subjective thoughts created from strong emotions sway his opinion, or the knowledge that he’s grown old, and that he’d do anything for his friends nowadays. Geralt has lied, perjured, killed, gone against his personal code so many times--he thinks of Skjall and Yennefer’s magic, and knowing he couldn’t stop her even if he tried--that the only truth he now knows is that he would step over as many lines as it takes for people dear to him.

He’s prone to poking and prodding when bored and agitated. He is impatient and anxious to find Dettlaff, to see the man for himself, when he’s not wrist deep in Regis’ chest. He wonders if there’s anything there to understand at all. He hopes there is. The book, he finds on accident. It looks like any other, and it takes Geralt too long to recognize Regis’ hand. By then, he’s already read the first page, and seen, in his spiked handwriting, the words, _‘I have a feeling that my friend Dettlaff will die. I am sad.’_

They’re simple words, for a complicated man. If Regis were to speak, Geralt is sure he would embellish, and the added words would rationalise and perhaps diminish the meaning. Yet, the worry in his words is clear. Regis, from his words here, seems to be tired. Tired, alone, and sad.  
  
Geralt doesn’t feel that much different. He wishes he could read on further, but basic decency prevents him. Disturbing someone’s privacy, especially a good friend’s, is not something Geralt likes doing, and so he replaces the book where he’s found it.

Regis has told him, explicitly, that he owes a great debt to Dettlaff. What he doesn’t understand is that Geralt himself owes the same debt, just for this chance of speaking with Regis again. Dettlaff’s the first person to give him back time, though unintentionally, and entirely selflessly. He helped Regis, and perhaps the same reason drives him to help his long-lost lover, kidnapped and used to extort him instead of letting bygones be bygones.

There is clearly a deep friendship between them. Geralt senses there’s more to the story than just the blood bond, but he doesn’t know how to ask, and isn’t even sure Regis would tell him. If nothing else, he understands Regis. Geralt’s done plenty of things for his friends. Yennefer and Triss come to mind, just like chasing down katakans and gwent cards for Dandelion and Zoltan. Geralt only wishes that Regis would say what he thought, what he felt, thought he knows he cannot go against his nature--Regis is subtle, and could beat around the bush for a small eternity until he found what he was looking for.

Geralt isn’t that patient.

The door of Regis’ hideout opens, and the vampire steps through. The vampire walks rather than misting down, and when he’s in the main chamber he scents the air before looking up right at him. He smiles, something in his shoulders dropping. It’s been a long time since someone was relieved to see Geralt.

“Comfortable?” Regis asks.

In so many other mouths, it would’ve sounded like a clip, a jab. He’s heard it enough time out of Yennefer, when she’s impatient to get to something. Regis means it. He rarely _speaks_ if he doesn’t mean what he’s saying. He doesn’t know how much Geralt appreciates it.

“Got the brew,” Geralt says.

“Ah, yes.” He walks up to where Geralt is, and says, “There’s another thing.”

#### -

Regis explains what he needs in quick precise details. Geralt is still woefully unprepared. Not for the necrophages or vampires, no, monsters he can handle. He’s unprepared to witness the level of Regis’ devotion for his friend. What they do in Tesham Mutna is torture, and one without a quick ending, especially for someone like Regis, an addict, who hasn’t had a drop of blood in a long time. Geralt shakes, though Regis has slumped down, tired.

He was never quick to be moved, but something happened after the Wild Hunt, after he spent months training Ciri, after he found himself in Kaer Morhen, alone. Something happened when he first saw Regis, alive, and he feels it shaking his heart. Regis speaks in convoluted circles, but his actions speak loud and clear. Nobody would put themselve willingly through such torture if it weren’t for a worthy cause.

Regis doesn’t want to hear a word of it when he comes back to himself, back in his abode. He doesn’t regret it, and so Geralt thinks that whichever other way Geralt could’ve found Dettlaff must surely be horrendous that this is the easier path.

Geralt thinks of the diary, thinks of Tesham Mutna, and of the ring on Dettlaff’s severed hand. He realises, quite belatedly, that in whichever quality, Regis loves Dettlaff. He loves him enough to torture himself over it, and enough to chase him around, even with a contract on his head, and someone like Geralt on his trail. There is trust between them, trust enough that when Regis stopped him, Dettlaff left.

Not for the first time, Geralt feels like he’s looking at something through stained glass. Humans, he understands. Vampires? Not at all. But Regis doesn’t speak, and Geralt can only assume that vampires must feel richly, deeply, perhaps even desperately, if this is what they do. It’s enviable.

He drinks the Resonance.

#### -

After the twitching has stopped, after he’s spoken to Regis, Geralt takes a moment to breathe and recover. He drinks water Regis gives him, and meditates. The potion is no worse than Marlene’s wight brew. In fact it’s a few degrees easier, but something burns under his skin, something completely different. There’s a place in his mind where Regis lingers, and next to it a portal has opened, stolen sensations flooding in, though whose he can’t be sure.

“Is it possible that the potion transfers phantom feelings?”

“Is it so strange that a good-will gesture causes such a reaction?” Regis asks.

They’re not on the same page, him thinking about the bootblack, what’s ahead, and Geralt stuck in his own head. It makes little difference.

Geralt sighs. “No. I know how surprising it is, when you’re shown basic human decency. I just learned not to linger on the feeling, lest I be disappointed for the hundred others who don’t.”

Regis’ face does something complicated, and Geralt’s not seen enough of him to relearn and retrace all the old steps. He spent so much time looking and talking with him back then. He wishes he had more of it now. He wishes he could spend at least a day looking at Regis, in his company.

Geralt massages his chest; it has begun to ache like heartburn after a decoction. He’s growing old, he thinks again.

“You two--” Regis begins then shakes his head.

“Are similar?” Geralt finished for him. “You’ve said.”

“You don’t take offence?”

“I’m just skeptical. But you know us both, so really, only time will tell.”

Regis considers him. It’s not the first time he’s met his eyes, but now they seem even deeper black, overwhelmingly dark, like he drank a portion of Cat. They consider him, but Geralt isn’t uncomfortable. In fact, he knows that if nobody else in Toussaint, it’s Regis whose gaze is academic, quiet and kind. He’s sick of Beauclair’s wagging tongues, and the dream hellscape. The nature is beautiful, true, but that beauty is paralleled only by the quiet madness of the politics, the brutality secreted away in estates and homes, so much blood spilled and swept up, hidden away, and the fact that it seems everyone has quietly agreed never to break the chivalrous fantasy. Geralt wonders if all the Aen Seighe whose deaths built this Toussaint have decided to come for their due.

“What’s on your mind, my friend?”

“This place,” he says. “Among the people, I feel like I’m the only sane one around.”

“That’d be the social contract.” Regis’ smile is fond. “It’s their way, the wine, the knight errants, the fairy tale stories that they wish their lives to be, only to die trying to prove their never-existent honor. But if they didn’t do it, evaded, they’d be stung. It’s vicious, the hornet’s nest, when it turns on its own.”

“At least Radovid’s madness stayed with him.”

“But did it?” Regis asks. “Heard he did a dent with his Witch Hunters.”

“Philipa repaid him. With interest.” Geralt shifts. He has no clock, yet he needs none to know it’s still night. There’s a couple hours left to steal until they have to go meet the bootblack.

“You going to tell me the tale about the Wild Hunt?” Regis asks.

Geralt looks at him, and wishes to do everything but that. The Wild Hunt isn’t something he remembers fondly. The fear, the anxiety, running half-frozen, thinking Avallac'h betrayed him, then thinking Ciri dead for good. He can’t live through it again, not now, when he feels these strange emotions under his skin. The potion did something. Opened some doors. He just doesn’t know which.

“Some other time,” Geralt replies. “Dettlaff. Tell me about him.”

“Is this academically, as a hunter, or--”

“He’s your friend,” Geralt says, letting his head rest on the cool wall. “I want to know. How did you meet? Where did you go?”

“My,” Regis says. Something in his tone of voice changes, something warm, but tentative. “All that. I fear we’d be here all evening. Are you so curious about him?”

“I’d be curious about anyone who carried your favour,” Geralt replies. Inside him, something shifts. “Listening to you calms me.”

Regis’ voice sounds a little breathy when he says, “Well then. Where do I start?”

Geralt listens to Regis’ soft, even voice. He’s always found it comforting. Dandelion has always been quick, fiery, quick to agitate him, but Regis soothes something inside him, a balm to his senses. Regis is quiet. His heart beats, his blood rushes, but there’s no rattle of breath, no need to break the melody his words create. His cadence reminds Geralt of the ocean: constant, smooth, soporific.

Regis tells him what he asked, and then tells him more. It’s then, when he laughs, when Geralt opens his eyes to look at his smile, unrestrained and showing his fangs, that the blank spot in his mind flares. Regis loves Dettlaff, but moreover, he’s in love with him.

It’s strange, realising you’re in love with a person, when they’re talking about loving another man.

#### -

The effects of Resonance fade by the morning, and Geralt packs away all of his realisations in the back of his mind. There’s things to do, and little space for error. He doesn’t expect to end his search at a soirée, and if he did, he’d have liked to avoid it. Yet, he learns a handful of important things: Orianna is a vampire, another kidnapper is the duquessa’s sister, and that the Beast isn’t what Geralt imagined him to be at all.

Regis strolls in, looking comfortable with Orianna, and comfortable to be walking beside Dettlaff, who sits across Geralt. The dark spot in his mind flares, remnants of the potion, must be, and Dettlaff’s visage settles in with startling ease. The paleness of his eyes is intense.

Regis’ eyes consume while cushioning, but with Dettlaff, it feels like he’s looking at him, through him, _into_ him, like he can see everything good, and all of the bad he’s ever done, even as they exchange thinly veiled supplications.

“Same as humans. Put them in that situation, they’d kill too.”

“You understand this, it must be why you and Regis are friends. If I understand you correctly, you would rather help a monster than kill it?”

“If possible, yeah. Or at least try.”

He understands. Geralt does. When Triss was taken hostage, he came for her. He’d have done, and did do, anything. He can no more judge Dettlaff on such a matter, than he can judge himself, and he’d be a hypocrite to take his head if he didn’t offer his own neck in return. Besides, he’s felt his grief thanks to Resonance, and seen it in the warmth of his still-twitching hand until Regis spirited it away.

There’s no relief on Dettlaff’s face, just a strange look in his pale eyes, as if this is just another hurdle he needed to cross. Geralt understands this. But it’s never comfortable looking at a mirror. It’s only later, in conversation with Anna Henrietta, that he gets the full picture.

She says, “He’s sensitive, sad. He carries within him the weight of a terrible tragedy. He’s a good man, but lost, which is why he comes across as grim.”

He thinks of her words when he returns to Crovo Bianco, and he wonders if the tragedy was losing Rhenawedd, or losing his home and being forced to come to this confusing world where he’s considered a monster.

Geralt’s gut twists. He doesn’t have a good feeling about any of this, and he’s listened to his gut enough times to know that it’s to be trusted. Anna Henrietta’s words are true, but Geralt’s never been kind to anyone who was like him, simply because at the time it was difficult being kind to himself. It’s still difficult now. Yet, strangely enough, be it because he is dear to Regis or because of whatever doors the potion opened in his mind, he feels compelled to help Dettlaff rather than watch him suffer any longer.

#### -

The illusion breaks. Rhenawedd, Sylvia Anna, Syanna, kidnapper, captor, blackmailer. All the same. Geralt feels faint outrage though he’s sure it’s not his own. He’s seen too much human trickery to be anything but resigned. Perhaps his outrage comes from the way he watched Dettlaff check Syanna for wounds, clearly caring, clearly in love, and clearly betrayed. Or perhaps Resonance did something other than letting him watch memories.

Three days, DEttlaff gives them. Regis looks shaken and unwell, and perhaps that’s why he trips over his words and admits what he shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. If he didn’t reveal Dettlaff’s name, Syanna would’ve done it. It doesn’t stop Regis from regretting it, on their way back to the city.  
  
“You said she’s pack,” Geralt says, though he knows Regis isn’t in the mood.

“She certainly was. To be pack, it’s--” He falls short of words, which is rare in its own right. He stops, and turns to look at Geralt. “It’s to be family. To be trusted, ultimately, unquestionably. I never understood Dettlaff’s affection for her, but I didn’t need to. Now-- now I regret that I didn’t.”

Geralt puts a hand on Regis’ shoulder. “You couldn’t predict this, even if you would be saving him a great deal of pain now.”

Regis blinks, and then his eyes go to Geralt, and he seems to find something there. “So you understand.”

“That you love him? Of course,” Geralt says. “Which is why we need to find him. If nobody else, well. He will listen to you.”

Regis is quiet for a long minute, as if struck by emotion. But there’s no telling hitch of breath, just the quickness of his heartbeat.

“Geralt, Syanna betrayed him. Used him for her own purposes. I don’t think he can forgive that. Whatever happens, I will stand by your side.”

And perhaps it’s this distress in his mind, either imagined or real, pouring into his mind, and the need to solve the issue quickly, that makes him say, “We’re all on the same side, Regis.”

Regis looks stupidly close to tears so Geralt places a hand on his shoulder, and allows him to collect himself before they’re on their way.

#### -

Frustration builds in Geralt, and explodes into harsh words pointed at Anna Henrietta, who cares little about people and more about her family, though she’s forgotten about it for years. They should’ve delivered Syanna days ago, and Geralt knows that’s the easiest way to settle this--whatever happens will be comeuppance, one Anna Henrietta is aware of and desperately trying to prevent. But what patience Geralt has had for the duquesa, for the royalty, and the rules of this land, has ran out. If Syanna has sown the seeds of her own destruction, then let her reap them too, not Beauclair’s residents. Actions always have consequences.

“Let’s find Damien’s unit.”

Regis’ relief is tangible in his words when he says, “I knew you’d not make me beg.”

Regis may be curious about gods, but it’s clear that he respects the pact of the pack in a worshipful, incredibly serious manner. To spit on that-- Geralt doesn’t understand Syanna.

He finds Syanna in the world of illusions, and decides to listen. He’s tired, tired of a week of nothing, chasing his own tail, feeling Regis’ worry and Dettlaff’s anger like they’re his own. At least, he wants to know who Sylvia Anna is before he delivers her to the headsman.

What he finds isn’t what he expected-- another girl cursed by the Black Sun. He can’t help thinking of Renfri. But he also remembers Anna Henrietta telling him that Syanna even as a child made a brother kill a brother, and wonders what horrors she must have put them through that even these illusions are afraid of her. It’s simple then, to realise the two are nothing alike. Renfri became a monster because she needed to be one. Stregobor was nipping at her heels and was backed into a corner. Syanna could’ve stayed in Nazair. She could’ve forgotten too. But it’s spite, revenge, and entitlement that drove her back to kill so many.

Geralt climbs the tower and finds Longlocks swaying in the air, hanged by her own hair. Her wraith screams, “Too late!” It feels like a message. This whole place, this whole illusion, feels like one big warning sign--something innocent now twisted and never able to return to what it was before.

He gets the magic bean, and returns to speak with Syanna, who, when prodded, says, “Dettlaff? He was only ever a tool, and only a tool. I enjoyed his attention at first but only at first. He did not love like a man, but like an animal. Madly, deeply, unconditionally. Wildly. To return such a feeling...anyone would be hard pressed, let alone someone as twisted as I am.”

Geralt doesn’t understand it at all. Geralt would give his right hand to be loved like that, with no stipulations or questions. He’d grab it by the horns, desperate to keep it even if it hurt him. He _did_ do that, because Ciri was and remains the light of his life. He’d have died for her. He lives for her.

Maybe, Geralt considers, he isn’t nearly as human as he thinks he is. Maybe Regis’ theory about vampire mutagens is correct.

What sympathies he had for Sylvia Anna run dry, and he’s left feeling only disgust and a deep well of sorrow.

“You could have asked him. He’d have done anything for you.”

“But then I’d have to be with him,” Syanna replies, as if that’s worse than anything that’s ever happened to her. Like it’s a death sentence.

Yes, Geralt thinks. It _is_ too late. His heart has hardened, and he only wants out of this illusion. He has no time to do Syanna any more favors so when they go to the teller, her childhood ribbon remains where it should, with the rest of her dilapidated childhood memories.

#### -

They go to Tesham Mutna with the silence, and certainty, of a funeral procession. Geralt can sense Regis’ tumultuous feelings so much so that he wishes on occasion to grab his hand, his arm, anything to calm him. Geralt was right, the Resonance potion seemed to have opened his mind to both vampires, and he can feel their feelings like their own, with no way to push them out. He’d bring it up with Regis, but time is short.

Geralt feels his belly dropping, just like it did then when he found Regis but a stain on stone, and knows dread when he feels it. The silver snake of time he keeps chasing has managed to escape him once again. He knows little to nothing about Dettlaff, of his and Regis’ relationship, or if Dettlaff knows of Regis’ feelings at all. He’s only familiar with the heartbreak and rage he feels crawling under his skin like maggots, and fears it being misdirected.

He can’t watch Regis die again. His feelings have been there for a very long time, only buried under grief and responsibility, and he doesn’t think he could bear another loss.

Old stone crunches under his feet as he paces, before he finally settles down, leaning against a dilapidated fence. He supposes he can only feel envious of Dettlaff. Unconditional love has never been in his life, not when it comes to either Triss or Yennefer, and whatever he might or might not say, it’s with this unconditionality that Regis loves him.

His worry is cut short as he watches Syanna’s dead body fall to the ground, blood fresh and startlingly sweet in the night air. He’s not even reached for his blade. Instead, he’s only relieved that it’s over.

“What did you do?” Regis demands. Geralt doubts it’s the question of morality. Regis looks shocked, sick, and in pain.

“What I had to do. What she deserved,” Dettlaff replies, and Geralt would be lying if he didn’t agree.

The tragedy of Syanna’s story began a long time ago. He regrets a child losing her family and struggling. But adults make their own choices. Syanna made hers, just like Renfri.

The rage Geralt feels coming from Dettlaff dissipates, as if the chill in the night air is stealing it in proportion to the blood pooling around Syanna’s corpe. Soon, nothing is left but regret and pain.

Dettlaff speaks. “Bauclair will know peace once more. The vampires will have left the city by dawn. I shall leave as well, go far away, far from men. You can try to stand in my way--”

“Stop,” Geralt says. “Nobody’s going to fight you.”

Dettlaff’s brows twitch, the only sign of his disbelief. “Forgive me, but after everything I find that hard to believe.”

Geralt’s thoughts swarm. Regis and Dettlaff’s minds are right there in his head, behind an invisible wall, and though he may sense them he just hasn’t learned how to access them. He feels an eavesdropper in his own head. It’s staggering.

“I owe you,” Geralt shrugs, feeling the weight of his years climb his shoulders. He just wants to lay down, and go to sleep. “Besides, you’re dear to Regis. I’d never unjustly attack his friend.”

“You, witcher, are a strange one.” Dettlaff looks at Regis, but whatever he’s looking for, Geralt isn't sure he’s found.

Geralt sighs. ““I wanted to at least share a drink with you, but as it is, I can only offer what remains in Corvo Bianco. I doubt I’ll be visiting any time soon. Need to inform Anna Henrietta.”

“Geralt,” Regis says, wide eyes turning to his own. “You will face--”

“I know, but all the same.” He looks at the two men. “Someone has to face the consequences of breaking the illusion these people are desperate to maintain, and it’s not going to be either of you.”

Dettlaff’s voice is startlingly gentle when he asks, “You’d do so much for Regis?”

“I owe him,” Geralt says. “And I owe you.”

Dettlaff’s heavy eyebrows pinch, as he considers him. In the end he says, “I wish we’d met under different circumstances.”

The feeling is mutual.

#### -

He goes to prison. It’s better than he expects it to be. He doesn’t stay for long either. A fortnight is all they need to sentence him, after all, it’s the question of the duquesa and the Royal Family. It still feels like a century when he slips back into his own clothes.

Nothing’s really changed except the easy set of Regis’ shoulders, and the truly relieved smile on his face. He looks like he’s grown younger since they last saw each other. It seems that Dettlaff’s death no longer troubles him, and it shows. Geralt’s heart trips on itself all the same.

“You’ve been well,” he says, and it’s a fact. A relief.

“Rest does that to you,” Regis replies. “You’ve, by comparison, grown thinner.”

“Nothing a few of Marlene’s meals can’t fix.”

Regis chuckles. “Interesting woman.”

“So you’ve been to Corvo Bianco. Good.”

Regis looks at him, eyes creasing from his smile. Geralt wants to kiss him. But he’s wanted to do that for a very long time now, so just like he resisted before, he resists now.

“Your majordomo was quite gracious,” Regis informs him. Then he asks Geralt if he wants to look for the fifth card. He will, he thinks, on his own, some other time. Right now, he wants more time with his friend.

“A drink is what I need,” he replies and Regis laughs. He’s laughing much easier now. It’s a good sight.

“That can be arranged,” Regis says, and stands.

#### -

As much as he paws at it, the dusk passes quickly into the night. He builds a fire, for comfort, though neither of them mind the dark.

“One thing’s left me wondering though,” Geralt says, swirling the hooch in his cup. “What with his...mind link let’s call it, to other vampires. His group instinct. I take it that killing a pack member isn’t on the list?”

“Correct. By rule, nobody can raise their hand against a pack member. It isn’t--”

Regis sighs. He never seems to be able to find words for pack, when he can for everything else. The gravity of it is telling.

“It’s like cutting off your own arm. Syanna was only ever connected to me adjescently, through Dettlaff, but even I could feel the blow. That’s the issue of having humans in packs.”

“You mean you actually let some?” Geralt jokes, and watches the corner of Regis’ mouth lift up, even as he shakes his head.

“They don’t really feel it, not like us. Syanna shouldn’t have been able to betray him, same as he shouldn’t have been able to kill her.”

Geralt wants to know how that functions exactly, but leaves it for later. Instead, he says, “Whether it was her curse that gave her the ability to manipulate, or his pack mentality, it happened. An ill fitting match.”

Regis hums. “Does her ultimate fate still bother you?”

“Yeah,” he says, “Still. Not her death precisely, but. She wasn’t born into this. She was made into this. Forced into it. Like Renfri.”

Geralt drinks. He drinks perhaps too much.

“There’s little reason to remain in Beauclair any longer,” Regis says. “Dettlaff is still tender from everything that happened. Wants to retreat somewhere, far, far from them. I’m inclined to join him.”

“Smart man,” Geralt chuckles, and tries to bite back the disappointment. “Though I’d regret leaving if I were him. The place is just damn beautiful.”

Geralt can’t help looking at Regis when he says this. He wants to go with him, he’d _beg_ , ‘Please take me with you, please don’t leave me here alone.’ But he knows it wouldn’t be fruitful, and that he’d just be embarrassing himself.

Regis looks at him, like he can see it all the same, but is kind enough not to mention it. “You know, I never thanked you for what you did for me. I thought that staying quiet wouldn’t have affected your moral judgment.”

“Regis, you speak often, so when you keep quiet about something it echoes louder than words.”

“Poetic,” Regis notes.

“Don’t tell Dandelion,” Geralt snarks, just to watch Regis’ amused smile. “Whether you said anything or not, I would’ve done the same thing, I understand, why you said we are similar now.”

“Oh?”

“Used,” Geralt says.

Regis’ face does something and Geralt takes a breath of the fresh night air. Strange, how he can find more comfort in a graveyard than among people. Regis’ emotions are a soft lull, where Dettlaff’s are comfortably numb. He thinks of mentioning this connection with them to Regis, but there are more important things to say.

“If you like, you can go to Kaer Morhen.”

Regis looks at him. “Is that wise?”

“Vesemir died when we were fighting the Hunt. Lambert is off with Keira, travelling, curing the plague, and Eskel-- well. He’s definitely no longer returning. It’s empty and separated. And, if you wish to do something, it’s definitely in need of some work.”

“I-- thank you,” Regis says, and he uses such inflection, it’s as if Geralt offered him the clothes off his back.

“I just--” Geralt starts, and sighs, and drinks, even as his head gets murkier and murkier. He’s too drunk. He’s never been this drunk before, he’s pretty sure. “I just wish we had more time.”

He thinks he loses consciousness. Yet, he feels himself being lifted, because as deceptive as he is, Regis is still leagues stronger than him.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life,” Regis says, voice floating to Geralt’s ears as he lays Geralt down in his scent, “It’s that there’s never _the_ opportune moment, and never enough time to say anything of import.”

He kisses Geralt’s forehead then, the soft skin under his eye, and the corner of his lip. In the morning he’s gone. Geralt aches, left to chase the remnants of his scent on the bedroll and his own skin.

#### -

Corvo Bianco remains painfully beautiful. Geralt’s chest aches on all sunny days, when he can do little else but drink wine and look at the hills. The voices, the two points in his mind that were Regis and Dettlaff have gone quiet, and have scared over. Geralt doesn’t voice it, he just knows he’s lost something.

Ciri joins him, more days than not. Since Geralt no longer carries favour with the duquesa he’s left alone, and so Ciri herself enjoys the wide breadth people give them. She hunts monsters, and when she doesn’t she returns, stays in the guest bedroom, and observes the swords Geralt puts up, among which stand Winter’s Blade from Crach an Craite, and Iris from Olgierd von Everec. Marlene is happy to cook for another person. But Geralt watches her and knows this too shall pass. Cirilla is a proficient witcher, but she will see strife soon enough. She will lose the goggles of novelty, and she will realise that the life on the Path isn’t what she wants. Geralt had just bought time for himself, selfishly playing at family.

He knows, just like he knows in his belly that he’s missing something, that she will meet with Emhyr, sooner or later. The crown will find her head when she decides to bear its burden. The events in Toussaint itself irritated her, bothered her, yet she could not intervene. She’s releasing slowly that she can’t change much with a silver sword, something Geralt’s known for a long time now; the changes Geralt made were accidental, and only for the purpose of finding Cirilla sooner. Destiny no longer empowers his hand in such a manner.

He enjoys Dandelion coming and going, Zoltan dropping by, Roche and Ves, even Tanner visiting on occasion. Lambert and Eskel find him by word alone, and they get comfortable in Beauclair quickly, the wine and nice weather doing them wonders. Geralt wonders if Letho is still in the castle. He forgot to warn the vampires.

He gets restless, despite his friends, his family. One morning he rolls out of the bed, and he knows he can’t remain there. The restlessness grows, like a jitter in a nervous leg, and he finds himself wandering farther and farther away, riding to the edges of Toussaint, until one day he dresses in his armor, takes his swords, mounts Roach, and leaves.

#### -

There’s no plan to go anywhere in truth. He knows where he can’t return yet, Corvo Bianco, and he knows where he can’t go, Kaer Morhen. Never before did he think the fortress forbidden to him, but whether it be respect, or a need to not intrude, or fear that he’d be disappointed to find it empty, he crosses it off the map.

He goes north slowly, Novigrad, Velen now recovering from the plague, Oxenfurt. There are jobs, here and there. Not like he needs gold, but it’s good to be needed. With Triss in Kovir, and Yennefer at Emhyr’s side, there’s little else to find. He heads to Skellige and spends close to a year there, entertaining Cerys, Ermion, and the druids. But it seems, they feel something wrong too. He wonders what Anna Henrietta might have said, if she met him now. But there’s no second chance at leaving a first impression.

After he returns from the isles he heads east, to Ban Ard, abandoned, Loc Muinne, Dol Blathanna. The edge of the world. He goes back to the beginning. It was simpler then, when he first met Dandelion, when all his worries were about having enough coin to eat.

He feels swollen fat on feelings he can’t voice that choke him when he tries to push them out, yet feels like he’d trivialize them if he said them aloud. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, exactly. He misses Regis. He regrets time lost, he regrets not telling him how he feels, regrets at least not asking to travel with him despite the obvious answer he’d have gotten. Perhaps it would’ve been easier. He always regrets what he could’ve done but didn’t, rather than the consequences of his actions. Now, he can only hope Regis and Dettlaff found the peace they needed. Geralt sure as shit isn’t getting any.

Just south of Ard Carraigh, he finds a bullvore amid a nest of nekkers. He acts quickly, there is nothing else to do but attack, but he’s unprepared for it’s strength. It’s an old beast, practiced, and Geralt’s distracted. Blood sprays from the nekkers clawing at him, even as his legs betray him, his sword arm falling, broken, after a brutal hit from the bullvore. His ribs concave. His breath rasps. Geralt can taste blood in his mouth, and he wonders if his lungs have been punctured.

His mind burns, screams, like never before. But all he can do is fall. A witcher’s death, he thinks. No witcher died in his bed. It’s like a curse, more than a saying. He just never thought it’d be so soon. Vesemir managed three centuries and it was still too early. Geralt hasn’t even reached one.

His vision narrows, and all he can see is the bullvore’s maw snapping at him while the nekkers crowd around him. Then a flash of black. His vision fails him and so he closes his eyes, and feels the earth tremble. There’s a large growl, and groan, a sigh. The nekkers scream so loudly that even when they stop, their voices ring in his ears. Everything hurts.

There’s a hand on his face, cold and firm. He thinks of Ciri, of Regis, of Yennefer, but when he blinks his eyes open, he sees who he least expected.

“Dettlaff?” he manages, thought it takes great effort.

Dettlaff shushes him, and spills Sparrow into his mouth. If he takes any more his body will start fighting the toxicity, and Geralt chokes, coughs, and feels worse for it. The pain makes him conscious at least.

Dettlaff waits until Sparrow’s effects have worn off, then lifts him up. Geralt’s mind protests, screams, and gives up.

#### -

Waking is a process. A painful one at that. He checks his fingers, his toes, passes his tongue over his teeth. All accounted for. Yet his mind feels heavy, his breath difficult to draw. When he opens his eyes they burn, but when he closes the pain follows. There’s no escape. He forces them open again only to gaze at the wooden ceiling, and the off-white walls with chipping paint. Dust dances in the sunlight pouring in from the tall windows. The scent in the air is that of blood and herbs. A clinic?

No, he judges it too quiet. His ribs hurt. His hand hurts. He can’t even turn his head. At least his veins don’t burn. The toxicity must have passed while he was out. His breath rattles, and his throat hurts. He’s parched. That, or he’s been screaming. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that in his sleep. But no nightmares haunt him, not like before, when he dreamt of Ciri needing his help.

He’s in an empty house, in a room on the second floor if he judges by the rail, surrounded by bandages, gauze, and potions. Someone found him.

Geralt hears nothing, distracted as he is, yet Dettlaff appears before him all the same. It’s startling. He hasn’t got his frock on, but is instead in a black shirt, cuffs rolled in a gentlemanly manner, just enough so he doesn’t ruin them. More surprising than that, though, is the fact that his eyebrows are clearly pinched together. Worry, Geralt supposes, or surprise. Perhaps he’s even cross with Geralt. Yet, it’s an emotion more than he ever thought he’d get from the vampire.

His hand is cool on Geralt’s forehead, and a relief for his pounding headache. Geralt wishes he could go back to sleep. In sleep, at least, he doesn’t feel pain. The meditative, restorative sleep demands his attention, and it’s slowly shutting down his awareness.

“Do not be afraid,” Dettlaff tells him.

Geralt wonders what he looks like, so that Dettlaff might say that, soothing him as if he were a startled horse. Whatever it is, he can’t help appreciating the hand on his face.

Dettlaff places a waterskin to his mouth, but lets him drink only a mouthful or two, before taking it away. It’s enough, at least, to let Geralt slip back to sleep with no protest.

#### -

He wakes again in episodes, his mind clawing to reality in different moments, but never staying long. He drinks more water. His bandages are changed. At moments, he only looks at Dettlaff who sits in the armchair next to the bed, flicking through the pages of some decades-old tome.

When he wakes up, finally, for good, is when he feels something going down his throat, and he snaps his eyes open, moves his head, coughts. The cold hand again is on his face again, only when he looks, it isn’t Dettlaff’s. Geralt’s heart stutters, and he feels such a flood of relief so suddenly and strongly, he thinks he might have cried out, if his throat weren’t so hurt.

“Regis,” he says, and manages to drag out a wry smile out of him.

“You sound as if you haven’t seen me in years.”

Geralt wants to sit up, to grab him, to put their foreheads together, to show how glad he truly is. But when he tries, the pain stops him, and his hand is tender and bandaged.

“I haven’t,” Geralt says.

Regis’ good mood doesn’t linger. In fact he looks downright worried. Juxtoposingly, Geralt hasn’t felt lighter in years.

“What happened?”

“Dettlaff sensed, or so he says, something and ound you, took you here. Cared for you until you were in a stable enough condition that he could get me.”

Dettlaff, Geralt thinks. He needs to thank him.

“You’ve been out for five days, and what with the toxicity in your blood you weren’t healing as quickly.”

“Where are we?”

“Ard Carraigh. Precisely, the southern part.”

“Fancy,” Geralt mutters.

Regis doesn’t laugh, where he usually would’ve.

“I take it Kaer Morhen wasn’t up to snuff.”

“Quite the opposite actually, it’s proven a great diversion. This is just temporary dwelling.”

Geralt hums. He looks at Regis, his stern concerned brow, his downturned lip. He feels something inside him tremble, shake, groan in defeat. He sighs. “It’s good to see you.”

Regis looks at him, and the moment stretches as his gaze jumps from one eye to the other. But if Regis had something to say, it falls flat between them. “Come on. I’ve got to change your bandages.”

“What’s the extent of the damage?”

“Broken ribs, broken hand, concussion, and some flesh wounds. Nothing’s healing quite as quickly as your ribs though, so I wager it’s the worst injury.”

Geralt grunts. It’s always been like that. First the largest, the most severe, injuries heal up first, before his witcher’s healing focuses on the periphery. It’s why he’s acquired so many scars.

“It’ll take me at least a week.”

“So you’ve been breaking ribs often?” Regis asks, even as he helps him sit up. The pain isn’t as big as it was before but it still hurts like a sunnova bitch.

Geralt rumbles out a laugh, cut short by a hiss when Regis starts unwinding, and then re-winding the cloth. Geralt sways into him, leaning, holding onto him awkwardly. He wishes he could savour the closeness, but all he can focus on is holding himself up.

At least Regis is quick. He has no healing magic, but he has potions and alchemy, which to Geralt feels more tangible than spells anyway. He props Geralt up, and brews some sort of tea, and they sit like that, sharing it in the afternoon, like two grandmothers in front of a hut gorging on gossip. But with Regis, it’s always peaceful, and he cannot complain.

“Has Anna Henrietta’s good will ran out, so that you should leave Corvo Bianco?”

“Restlessness, more than her,” Geralt replies. “The Path was calling to me again.”

“Strange will of the path, to throw you into a bullvore’s way.”

Geralt sighs. “You’re angry with me.”

“Indeed,” Regis says, but doesn’t sound it at all.

He sounds amused Geralt picked up on it, but still disappointed enough that Geralt can feel it. After Yennefer’s angry, outlandish, vindictive angers and unapologetic unforgivables, Regis’ anger only feels warm.

“I do not like it when you’re harmed though I know I can’t possibly ask you not to do your job. Your calling. So rather than anger, take it as a concern of an old friend.”

He doesn’t hear Dettlaff, just like the last time. He senses him approaching, but only when it’s too late, and he’s materialized out of red fog. He looks at Geralt, and halts in his approach.

“You’re...better,” he ends up saying, as if he expected to find Geralt unconscious. As if dealing with a man, half-dead, is easier than an awake one. Geralt’s been in his shoes once, so he doesn’t hold it against him.

“I am,” Geralt agrees. ”Thank you, for saving me. And for caring for me, when you could’ve left me for dead.”

Dettlaff inclines his head, and says, “No, I couldn’t have.”

He doesn’t explain, but instead looks at Regis. Yes, Geralt thinks, perhaps that’s enough of an explanation. Not to mention that selfless streak of his. Despite his experience, he doesn’t seem to have been able to cull it.

“Did you run into Letho, by any chance?” Geralt asks.

“No, the fellow was long gone by the time we reached Kaer Morhen. He did leave a letter for you.”

Geralt nods, but Regis only makes a face. “I’m not wont to read private correspondence, Geralt.”

“Of course,” Geralt chuckles. “But were you curious enough to do it anyway?”

“I kept myself busy with exceedingly disturbing reading material on the witcher trials. It was quite entertaining. And I learned something about witcher mutations.”

Dettlaff moves then, when he sees attention is taken from him, padding over to the dusty couch pushed against the far wall.

“Me too. I think I still have a letter from Yen somewhere. Doctor Moreau, mage and scientist. He was studying the mutations in Toussaint.”

“Vedyminaica. There are rare few people interested.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad for it. Soon, we too will be protected species, like Count Borhis’ silver basilisk.”

Regis chuckles. “I can only hope.”

Geralt smiles and drinks his tea. Then he says, “His son became a witcher. Moreau experimented on him, trying to reverse the mutations, but only deepened them, until he gave up. His son hated him, deeply, for a long time. I think that even before becoming a witcher, home was not a happy place. So I took advantage of the apparatuses left.”

“Without even knowing they’ll work you used them?” Regis asks, sounding scandalised.

“It gave me an edge. Of course I did.”

Regis shakes his head, mouth displeased and amused at once. It’s such a confusing, endearing expression, that Geralt’s heart leaps, and he wishes he could kiss him.

“Speaking of the sorceress. I was curious to note while at Corvo Bianco her absence. And at Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt smiles and hums. “I never got around to telling you about the Wild HUnt.”

“Well, we have a whole week now.” Regis says it in such a tone that it reminds Geralt vividly of the night he left and the kisses he laid on his face. But just as he feels ready to speak, he gets drowsy.

“What is in this tea?” Geralt mumbles out.

“Painkillers, mostly.” He takes the cup from his hands. “Sleep,” he orders, running his hand through his hair, touching his face, and helps him settle down.

#### -

Geralt wakes with a feeling that someone’s hovering over him. He recognizes a hand on his face, nail scritching the scruff of his beard and touching his temples. But when he blinks his eyes open, he finds Dettlaff there instead of Regis.

He doesn’t seem caught off guard, nor does he stop. He only looks at him, as if he knows exactly what Geralt needs. Not that Geralt’s going to deny it right about now, he likes the tender touch. He’s always liked softness, it’s just difficult to get some that’s truly genuine.

“You were shouting in your sleep,” Dettlaff tells him.

Geralt hums and pushes into his hand. Dettlaff obliges, curls it around his ear, into his hair. It would feel too intimate if Geralt didn’t feel like a housecat. Perhaps reading all those documents the first time in Tesha Mutna messed with his head.

“I was...in a tower I think,” Geralt says. “Someone died. Someone important. I was being torn apart.”

“You were apologising,” Dettlaff offers. “Regis?”

“Ciri. My daughter.”

Dettlaff hums as if he understands. Perhaps he does. Geralt looks at him.

“I’m sorry about your friend. The bruxa.”

“You are,” Dettlaff says. It’s not a question. It sounds more like he needs to confirm it to believe it.

“Could’ve ended differently.”

“No,” Dettlaff says, removing his hand. “It ended like it must have. She went for my hand, you were chasing after me. I see now, that your will is indomitable.”

“How’d you figure that?” Geralt asks, softly amused.

“You cling to life so desperately. And is it naught but will that makes men push through?”

Geralt wonders. It seems that even with just Dettlaff, there’s comfort. He wonders if his body’s just gotten used to Regis so much, to the silence where breath should go, the piercing gaze that asks nothing of him but confirm he’s still alive.

“You do not fear me. Why? I gave you every reason to.”

“I owe you,” Geralt says.

“You said that before. I don’t remember you ever being in my debt.”

“I owe you for helping Regis, nevermind that you did it for your own reasons. If you hadn’t I’d have not met him again. Time--” Geralt’s pain flares up and he grimaces, whimpering. He barely catches his breath afterwards. “And I owe you for helping me. Besides, you’re important to Regis. I don’t know why but when you’re close my senses--they calm.”

“Then sleep, Geralt,” Dettlaff says. His hand is warm on his shoulder. It feels safe. Geralt doesn’t question it.

#### -

While he cannot stand, he sits up the next day to have a meal. Regis cooks, and not half badly either. To them food is not necessary, not sustenance, but a pleasure anyway, and it’s a treat to eat something prepared by a sensitive nose.

Afterwards Dettlaff settles on the couch, Regis on the chair next to him. He doesn’t know where to start speaking, so he begins after Stygga, about his loss of memory, about finding Yennefer.

It’s only then that he realises Dettlaff might not know the people involved and he says, “Sorry this won’t be entertaining for you.”

“Not at all.” Dettlaff says, “Regis spoke of some you mention.”

Geralt nods. “Yennefer, well. She never quite forgave me for being with Triss before I got my memory. She thinks it an excuse.”

“Strange, altogether, how she didn’t get angry with her _friend_ who manipulated you so.”

Geralt rolls his shoulder. The good one. “I don’t presume to know Yennefer de Vergeberg’s mind.”

“Would it not have been simpler to just--be with both?” Dettlaff asks, as if he’s truly surprised. It’s amusing.

“Yennefer doesn’t share. Ever. With anyone.”

“She guards her things jealousy. I’m just surprised. Once upon a time, she might have even killed you if she thought you crossed her,” Regis comments.

The same thought came to Geralt’s mind, but years, distance, perhaps even feelings, softened her.

“I could not stay with Triss. She tried manipulating me again when I was trying to help her move the mages out of Kovir. As for Yennefer--we broke the djinn’s spell. She got hurt that it worked.”

“Djinn?” Dettlaff asks.

Geralt;s lips quirk with amusement and he explains, slowly, the mess he made in Rinde. It was a faithful day that is for certain. He was with Yennefer, and he loved her so fiercely that he realised he _could_ love after all. But it withered away slowly, helped by her verbal abuses, until none was left when the spell broke. He wasn’t quite honest. It wasn’t the spell breaking that ended their relationship. It was just time and weariness. But Yennefer would have never understood that, never respected it, like she never respected any of his other boundaries.

“She’s at Emhyr’s court now I imagine, Triss in Kovir.”

Regis’ expression is kind but surprised. “I never thought-- you were just so adamant about finding her, before.”

“True,” Geralt replies. “But Yennefer’s love came with a host of stipulations. With no world ending to keep up from grasping at each other, I realised I couldn’t do that anymore.”

“She’ll get over it. If nothing, Yennefer’s strong.”

Geralt can’t argue with that. He doesn’t regret it, neither ending his relationship with Yennefer, or turning Triss away. It only feels liberating. He’s no longer in the middle of a tug-o-war between the two of them. Perhaps now they might finally settle their differences by themselves.

#### -

One thing about laying injured in bed is that restlessness and boredom combine in an insufferable need to leave. He’s been patched up by mother Neneke enough times, and dragged half-dead to healers that he knows what to expect. It’s just that the feeling never comes. Regis isn’t always there to entertain him, which is just as well, because Dettlaff is. Geralt wakes, more times than not, with the vampire sitting on the bed, petting him like a house dog. It must be a vampire thing, something about hurting and his pack instinct. Geralt doesn’t protest-- he’d be a fool to do so.

“You don’t mind this?” Dettlaff asks. “Regis said that--humans are different.”

Geralt chuckles. “I feel like a well fed house-cat.”

Dettlaff’s corner of his mouth quirks up. “After it’s swallowed the canary?”

“After putting it among the pigeons,” Geralt replies.

“Oh not at all Geralt. I’m afraid that perhaps the dog did it.”

Geralt chuckles. “Alright, you’ve won this one. Thank you.”

Dettlaff seems pleased. Geralt’s not bantered with anyone for a long time, not like this, silly and important at once. He’s nowhere near a blushing maiden but his hand on his skin is warm, pleasant, and it makes Geralt _think_. Thank fuck his libido is nowhere in sight, his body focused on healing his broken body.

He knows what it means, nonetheless. Yet, he’s more surprised that he’d rather stay in bed, just like this, than be impatient to leave. His mind is calm, peaceful. It’s been a long time since he’s last felt like that.

#### -

Dettlaff is careful and tender. A long time ago, such touches burned, when he wasn’t used to any. Now, they feed something missing in his soul. It makes Dettlaff’s presence, alongside his wit that amuses him when he’s awake, welcome. Pleasant. He’s down right happy to see the bastard.

Eventually, Geralt manages to sit up again, even sit in the bed, and it’s the next day that he manages to get to his feet. He’s in a terrible need of a bath--grimy and covered in his own dried blood. In fact, he can’t wait to have one. His britches and his undershirt are the only things on him except the bandages, and he ignores his boots--no way is he bending over with healing ribs, and for the first time in days staggers over to the window.

He realises that _south of Ard Carraigh_ is putting it generously. He sees a short mountainous courtyard and around it a wild forest in the true Kaedweni style. He cracks the window open, and the scent of late autumn rushes in. He was right. There’s no sound around him, no people, nothing except Roach’s occasional huffing. The house is isolated.

Geralt closes the window, and manages to get to the stairs. He looks at the flight of them, and when he’s down all forty Geralt’s breathing hard with strain. Stairs are a fucking nightmare. But he couldn’t stay any longer in bed either.

He notices the doors of the cellar, the front doors, and the comfortable abode that is the lower level. There’s a couch, table and chair, looking much more lived in than the upstairs. Geralt realises he occupied the only bed in the entire house, but it seems Dettlaff and Regis have made use of the bedrolls, furs, and other padding. It smells of them. It’s an appealing scent, one that racks Geralt’s heart up a few notches. He ignores it, padding to the left, through the hall to the small kitchen, and from there out the doors to the stables.

Dettlaff must have heard him making a ruckus, but if he did, he doesn’t show it. He’s brushing Roach out, murmuring something to her so quietly not even Geralt can hear. Whatever it is, it makes him look terribly endearing. Geralt understands now, why Regis loves him.

“Geralt,” he says, and it’s something about the way he says it, voice deep but comfortable around his name, and the pale gaze of his warm eyes, that makes Geralt realise that, if chance allowed it, if he wouldn’t feel absolutely terrible, he’d be quite besotted with the man.

“You need to stop doing things that make me want to thank you,” Geralt says.

Dettlaff’s face creases and he comes closer, liberating a chair of Roach’s saddle and setting it down for Geralt to sit.

“I’m not doing it for thanks.”

“I know,” Geralt replies. “Which is more to the point.”

Dettlaff appears confused so Geralt doesn’t tortue him with it. Instead, he says, “Roach good?”

“A bit bored, but managing.”

“After spending nearly every day travelling with me, anyone would be.” He finds a comfortable position, which means he’s in less pain, and considers the two of them. Surprising even himself, he says, “You can take her out on a ride if you’d like.”

“Are you sure? Regis impressed the importance of her to me while you were unwell.”

“I’m sure,” Geralt nods. He doesn’t expect an immediate response, yet Dettlaff saddles her with quick, economic movements, clearly practiced before. Geralt sees Roach react with excitement.

“Do you want to go back inside?”

“Nah, I’ll wait for you.”

Dettlaff climbs up, and pushes Roach into an easy trot. Geralt watches with amusement as they go down the empty path, and realises there’s a smile on his face only when he hears a sound, turns, and looks at Regis.

Regis smiles back, and looks up. “Is Dettlaff on your horse?”

He sounds genuinely surprised. Then again, Geralt would be too.

“Roach needed a little workout.”

Geralt can’t see his face entirely, but he knows something shifts, something serious, where Geralt can see hurt fluttering into something so soft and pleased it takes Geralt’s breath from his lungs.

“You adore him,” he says, and looks so happy about it, Geralt can’t do anything but nod dumbly.

Geralt’s never thought he’d be in a position such as this. Even when he faced Istredd for Yennefer’s affections, he could hardly admit to anything, as he kept thinking that he, as he is, could hardly compete with a mage. He isn’t sure if it’s best to try and explain, though there’s little left for explaining. He just plain _likes_ Dettlaff, in that sort of easy, pleasant, constant manner that leads to greater depths. That lead, among other things, to what he feels for Regis.

“I--” he starts, feeling as if he should say something, apologise, promise not to act on his feelings, but Regis lifts a hand, cutting him off.

“Truth be told, I thought you’d not get along.” Regis chuckles softly. “I thought you ignoring each other was the best I could hope for. I am glad I was wrong. I wouldn’t mind if you were to let your affections be known to him.”

That, Geralt doesn’t expect. He knows he looks dumb as he blinks up at Regis. “Are you sure?”

“Indeed. I think by now that you know vampire relationships are quite different to human ones. I’d be delighted.”

Geralt inclines his head, feeling a terrible ache fill his heart. Regis, even in this, seems unselfish, and Geralt wishes he could as easily confess his feelings for him as he managed for Dettlaff. But it’s different. There’s too much water under the bridge between him and Regis. He has something he’d hate to lose with Regis, that isn’t there with the other vampire.

“Just,” Regis starts, hesitates, and let’s his voice grow soft. “Be careful with him, please. He means the world to me.”

Geralt nods and is shocked once more by how much Regis feels for him. And yet, he would have stood beside him against Dettlaff, back in Toussaint. Now, even as he’s glad they never reached that point, he wonders why.

#### -

Regis helps him with the bath, mainly by dragging in water, and then helps him out and into clothes, before packing him off to bed. Walking took too much out of him. Geralt hates feeling vulnerable, but at least there’s something about having two vampires to protect him that makes him lower his guard. Because that’s just it. Regis and Dettlaff are here, helping him. They’d protect him. It’s been a damn long time since he’s managed to relax just so, and the last time was in Kaer Morhen, surrounded with witchers, but burdened with others worries.

He wakes in the middle of the night, with the creaking of the floorboards from below. He hears voices, and it’s so quiet that he can parse out Regis saying, “It would please me, if you were to pursue him.”

It sounds as if he’s trying to convince Dettlaff, which seems strange in its own right.

“I-- he’s human,” Dettlaff says, but that’s not a no.

Regis chuckles. “He’d find offence in that, actually. He’s a witcher, first and foremost.”

“He’ll make me choose.” Dettlaff continues his protest. “And I won’t. Not after Rhenna--”

Dettlaff cuts himself off. It’s been two years and change, but Beauclair still seems to weigh heavily on his mind.

“He won’t,” Regis says, so easily that Geralt might think he’s reading his mind. But he isn’t. Regis just knows him that well. “He _understands_. I won’t push you, of course, but if it is something you desire, I encourage it.”

Dettlaff must do something, for there’s no verbal confirmation. He hears Regis groan after a long silence, the sound of clothes rustling, of a kiss breaking. Geralt’s suddenly struck with understanding. Regis’ breath hitches, and Geralt feels his cock filling. Heat covers his body, knowing what the two are doing, especially when they grow liberal with their sounds, pleasure muted but there.

Geralt tries not to move, not to make a sound, stuck, suddenly, violently, with images of watching it, of being there, of being held between them. Gods, what it would be like, to be taken care of in such a manner--vampires have more strength and stamina than witchers and they’d outlast him by days. He’d be wrecked. A complete mess. He’d not be able to think. And he’d let himself drown under those waves, knowing they’d pull him out in time.

Geralt’s cock aches. He breathes into his pillow and tries going to sleep.

-

He speaks in episodes about finding Ciri. One day about Velen, another Novigrad, then of Skellige, Kaer Morhen, and of the final battle. By the time he’s done telling his story, even about Olgierd, he’s able to stand on two legs without much issue. He’s tender, skin mottled purple with bruising that will be gone in a day or two, but it’s no excuse to stay indoors anymore.

Being outside is a relief, even dressed in light armor, his swords resting on the dresser. Dettlaff steers them in one direction, and there’s nothing quite like stretching forgotten muscles to get feeling back into them. He was sure Regis would appreciate walks, but it seems that without reason, he prefers to stay inside, like before, and centered on his research.

“He always locks himself up in the laboratory?”

“Alchemy is a passion of his which he pursues at liberty,” Dettlaff replies, nodding.

“Good. He’s looking better too.”

“Indeed, this is the best he’s appeared in a while,” Dettlaff says, and it’s with such kindness in his voice that if Geralt didn’t know it before, he knows now just how taken with him Dettlaff is. To know not only that Regis loves this man, but that he’s loved with equal measure, makes him both relieved and warm in his chest. “Alas, Regis is still not fully recovered, but with the blood of a higher vampire it’s a progress at least. It’d be easier if he were just to feed, but his morals stand in the way. Not to mention fearing his addiction.”

“Could you use mine?”

“I could,” Dettlaff replies. One thing Geralt’s learned about him--Dettlaff is honest, and blunt when he wants to be. “But you needn’t offer something just out of duty.”

“I know that much. I’d offer it to Regis, but we both know he’d not appreciate it.”

Dettlaff inclines his head in a soft nod. Then he stops to look at Geralt. “Then it’s your choice on the matter.”

“Would it make a difference?”

“A big one,” Dettlaff replies. But he knows, even when he says it, that it’s honesty, not manipulative. That makes all the difference.

“Then do it.”

As with other things, when Dettlaff makes up his mind he acts immediately. Geralt isn’t even aware of the tree until he’s backed up against it and Dettlaff’s right there, towering over him, his gentle hands gripping Geralt’s wrist.

Geralt’s in a loose collared shirt, he could go for the neck. But instead, Dettlaff lifts his wrist to his mouth, eyes looking nowhere but at Geralt’s. It feels like seduction. It’s not, it can’t be. Geralt still tracks the way the vampire’s tongue darts out to lick his skin, the way his lips linger over his pulse, the way Dettlaff nostrils flare as if whatever scent he’s caught pleases him. Then his fags sink into his flesh.

Geralt shudders, feeling at once hot, cock hard in his britches. He can’t help the groan that leaves him, nor the way his breathing quickens. It’s the venom, he knows. Regis at one point explained, but Geralt can’t _think_ about anything but Dettlaff’s mouth on his wrist.

Dettlaff drinks, and when he’s done he licks the wound which scabs over with unnatural speed. Another vampire thing.

But Dettlaff doesn’t move away. Instead, he lets Geralt’s hand fall as he pushes their chests close. His gaze is consuming, his hand kind when it touches his cheek, tilting it up, so their lips meet. Something explodes behind Geralt’s eyelids. Heat rushes through him, intertwining with need which urges him to push back into Dettlaff’s lips, chasing away the tentativeness of the kiss. He drags him forward, into something desperate, hard, and needy. He can taste blood on his tongue.

It’s not the first time Geralt fucked in the woods, and he’s pretty sure it won’t be the last one. He can’t imagine they can do more than rut against each other, but even that, to Geralt, sounds pretty damn fantastic now.

Dettlaff’s hand on his hip tightens, and in his mouth he can feel the first tremblings of a growl. It’s so attractive, Geralt breaks out into shivers.

He thinks the kiss will end then, that Dettlaff will do something more, like undress him. Instead, Dettlaff kisses him until Geralt can’t think of much else but the feeling of their lips together, until he can taste nothing but Dettlaff, until his lungs ache for breath. Tentatively, Geralt puts a hand on Dettlaff’s chest, and pushes.

Dettlaff doesn’t go far. In fact, he only breaks the kiss to trace his lips over his cheek, his jaw, down to his neck. Geralt thinks if he gets any more aroused he might pass out.

“Come on big guy,” Geralt mumbles.

It’s then that Dettlaff truly pulls away with, Geralt is surprised to find, something akin to shyness. He clears his throat. Damn, Geralt thinks, in the heat of the moment he forgot to even touch his hair.

“I apologies,” Dettlaff says, and looks it.

Geralt blinks. “Regis said it was alright.”

Dettlaff’s forehead creases, but the confusion clears quickly. “Indeed, otherwise I wouldn’t have let myself get carried away. I meant that I’m not doing this in the woods, in the open, where it’s unsafe.”

Geralt looks at him, and can’t help both being terribly amused, and being disappointed. It’s been a minute since he last got off with anyone.

“Well, let’s go back then,” Geralt says, pushing himself away from the tree.

#### -

Geralt has every intention of fucking Dettlaff that day, yet when they return Regis has surfaced from his laboratory, and Geralt is awash with realisation that he hasn’t seen him the whole day. Somehow, spending a meal with the two of them feels much more important than sex. Dettlaff seems to share his opinion. Geralt understands; Regis is easy to love. He just isn’t sure how to deal with such a different concoction of feelings. Dettlaff is all new, exciting, something he wants to unveil and understand. Regis is the favorite blanket, the ache of a long lost love coming back. He feels his efforts are useless in trying to handle the freshness of a new romance, and the burn of an old one.

Dettlaff doesn’t make it any easier. Their routine becomes that of stealing kisses on their walks, desperate when he’s filled with Dettlaff’s venom, just needy when he’s not. It’s a crying shame Dettlaff’s hands don’t stray anywhere under the waist.

Dettlaff’s shy to smile though talking about Regis brings it out in him. That, and spending time in the wild. He’s somewhat fond of animals, and Regis tells him he ventures to Ard Carraigh proper to keep company with the lesser vampires. It’s during one of their word competitions that he cracks, Geralt finally winning one. He looks disgruntled, and it only makes Geralt want to kiss him. So he does. He sees the looks in Dettlaff’s eyes change, something soft breaking free. He hums, as a soft smile graces his face.

“Good one,” he says, and Geralt smiles back.

He doesn’t mind it after that. Instead he feels levity in their brief encounters, like he’s still a teenager necking in the woods, hiding in the cabin of the lake behind Kaer Morhen.

On one such walk he brings it up, asking, “I understand Regis wasn’t bored at Kaer Morhen, but there’s little else to do there but read.”

“Not at all,” Dettlaff replies. “With how dilapidated it is, and with the drowners and rock trolls around, it was amusing.”

“The ones at the circle of elements?”

“There was a magical fond nearby.”

“Those three have watched nearly every generation of witcher from Kaer Morhen graduate. Hope you didn’t do anything to them.”

“They were merely amusing to speak with when they found me investigating the grounds. Regis wanted to see where the trials were held, but in the end spent more time in conversation.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth tugs up with fondness. That’s Regis alright. “The ones in the books are theory. In practice, it was much different. Lambert always had a bone to pick about that one. He’s a fellow Wolf.”

Talking about Kaer Morhen is interesting with someone who sees it with fresh eyes. What’s even more interesting is Dettlaff’s need to do something, that a place can’t hold him for long, that he prefers walking up and down mountains rather than sitting with a book like Regis. He understands, now, perhaps more than ever, why Regis said they were similar.

“So why did you leave?”

“You must understand, to a lot of vampires Kaer Morhen would’ve been perfect, especially to Unseen Elders. However, you also must have noticed that Regis and I are uncommonly social.” He turns to look at him and says, “Regis missed people. I missed conversing with fellow vampires. So we made a compromise, while staying out of the way.”

He understands, in a way. For Geralt, it was always relief to be hidden behind the Blue Mountains, secluded, secreted away, and separated from the daily abuses of the life on the Path. But each time he visited, he couldn’t stay long.

“I never asked, how you did that in Beauclair. Regis tried explaining but--” Geralt rolls his shoulder, glancing at Dettlaff in hopes he understands. “Pack propensity doesn’t really tell me much.”

Dettlaff hums and stops in the middle of the tracks. In the distance, Geralt can see a stag, hidding between the birches. “Ekimmaras have instincts to nest and hibernate together. It’s the same thing. I was born feeling that instinct in my head, sensing out other vampires, and letting them, in turn, sense my own emotions. I didn’t _command_ them to do anything, they weren’t under axii or some other spell. They just did it for me. Because they could sense my outrage, anger. Because I asked. Because they felt it was right.”

He cocks his head, and the stag disappears into the underbrush.

“It’s what drives me to befriend them. It’s what, I suppose, allowed me to be decieved by Syanna. When you are connected to other beings mentally, lies become defunct.”

Geralt nods, though he can’t imagine how it’d be like to have so many beings in his head. He’s always hated Yennefer’s mind-reading. If nothing else, he always liked his thoughts to remain in his possession. He wonders now, what it means that he can sense the vampires’ emotions.

“Syanna was pack, wasn’t she?”

Dettlaff’s brow becomes stormy, and he extends his hand for them to continue walking. “Our connection was a one way street. I couldn’t sense her like I can others. Do you regret your part in her death?”

“Regret isn’t something I’m particularily concerned with when it comes to my actions,” Geralt replies. He’s never been skillfull at avoiding topics, but riht now they’re not talking about him. “You said it had to be done.”

“It’s the law,” Dettlaff shrugs. “People who betrayed their packs suffered worse things than death, back in our homeland. I was...distraught. In truth, I cannot honestly say if I was acting within justice or vengeance.”

“It wasn’t revenge?”

“I felt no pleasure taking her life and no satisfaction. It just felt like scales balancing again. Like bloodletting.” His lips press together in a thin line. “I understand human have a similar tradition, pouring spirits on tombs of the dead.”

#### -

Kissing in the woods is easy. It brings levity to the situation, a simple joy he’s not felt in a long time. The house, he finds, is different. Dettlaff and he have just begun one of their easy conversations, and Geralt ends up leaning against the side of the couch, Dettlaff’s intent eyes burning him when he kisses him. Geralt feels off-balance, suddenly, something in his mind screeching to a stop.

He pulls away, feeling phantom distress, but for what he isn’t sure.

“Wait. Regis,” he says.

Dettlaff seems to draw a conclusion out of thin air. “I’m sorry Geralt, but don’t make me choose. I fear you won’t like the answer. Regis means too much to me.”

Geralt thinks that Dettlaff has been waiting for the other shoe to drop the whole time. He touches his face. “I know. It’s what made it so easy to fall in love with you.”

Dettlaff smiles with such intensity that Geralt can’t believe it’s pointed at him. Dettlaff kisses him like he wants to pour all of his affection into it, feed him love until Geralt’s sated, and Geralt can barely breathe by the end, heart quickening with feeling and hurt at the same time.

The gutted feeling in his chest remains, echoing from where he’s been able to sense Regis and Dettlaff. So he gently pries Dettlaff off, saying, “Something’s not right with Regis.”

He pushes past him, down the steps, and opens the doors of the laboratory, which wind down into the cellar. Regis stands there, looking quite surprised.

He lifts an inquisitive eyebrow and says, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He looks fine. He appears so, in any case. But his mind tells him otherwise, and Geralt can’t help going to him, taking him by his arms, checking him over. He’s uninjured. And yet.

“What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think anything is, my friend?” Regis asks. He seems amused, but it’s a facade. He knows Regis well enough now to know he’s hurting.

He isn’t sure it will make any sense, but if there’s one person who will believe him it’s Regis. “I can feel you in my _head_ , Regis. You were--are--hurt.”

“Ah,” Regis says, and looks away, across his shoulder, to look at Dettlaff. “That’s--can you feel Dettlaff?”

“Yes,” Geralt replies. “For a while, now.”

“Is it possible?” Dettlaff asks. “For a human to feel the bond?”

“Hey,” Geralt replies, stepping aside to look at him. It makes Regis chuckle, but it dies quickly.

“You can sense our emotions through it?” Regis asks, just to be correct. Geralt nods, and Regis seems to shrink in on himself, lose air, wilt.

Geralt’s never seen him like that before, and he wants to fix it as quickly as he can. It’s why he says, “I could feel you since I drank Resonance, it just grew weaker after you left. I thought it was the effect of the potion.”

Dettlaff’s hand is warm when it rests on Geralt’s shoulder. He isn’t pulling Geralt away to comfort Regis, instead his face is overcome with something like badly hidden excitement. Like hope.

“It’s not because of the potion, Geralt. It’s because you’re pack.” He seems almost happy about it, and Geralt doesn’t understand. He was sure that after Syanna, Dettlaff would be wary of humans and Geralt, however altered and changed, still belongs to the group.

Dettlaff continues with, “Remember what I told you. Vampires who are pack, family, are able to sense each other.”

Geralt looks at Regis. “That’s how you knew to come to Bauclair. For Dettlaff.”

“Indeed,” Regis replies.

The knowledge is overwhelming. He realises, quite belatedly, that he was considered Regis’ family _years_ ago, even when Dettlaff’s fate was all but certain. When the whole of Beauclair wanted his head. When Geralt was supposed to _kill_ him.

Geralt thinks of his impatience to stay in Corvo Bianco, and wonders now, if it isn’t this connection to them that drove him away, rather than any wish to return to the Path. He wonders how else this connection affects him.

“But,” he starts, feeling a desperate need to understand, and to sit down. “Why?”

Regis looks at him, eyes swelling, and he sits back into his chair, with such heaviness and air of defeat, Geralt is sure he’s said something wrong. Dettlaff goes to him, careful where he places his hand on his back.

“See, I hoped that keeping silent might bring you comfort, but I’m no longer able to hide them from you. I am, indubitably, in love with you. I’ve loved you for a very long time now.” He rolls his shoulders back, as if bracing for a hit. But even like this, in pain, Regis refuses to be anything but regal. “After everything you did for me just to get the potion, I realised that you were an integral part of my life. Someone I could trust to help me, and someone who trusted me in return. Someone I’d rather not go without.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say. Silence lingers, and Regis’ face crumples, and gains that appearance of understanding that guts him. He’d rather face Eredin again than look at Regis so hurt for a moment more.

“You needn’t feel obligated to accept it of course,” Regis says, as if that might soften the blow. As if that’s something Geralt _wants_ to hear. As if, Geralt realises, he’s expected his offer to be refused, and was just avoiding the inevitable. “Humans, generally, tend to be able to leave.”

Geralt feels the words strike his heart, and he doesn’t think. He steps forward, kneels between Regis’ knees, takes his face in his hands and kisses him. Regis lets out a desperate sound, a sound of a wounded animal, and grabs Geralt by the shoulders, holding him in place, fisting in his undershirt.

“I feel the fumes messed with your head. I’d be honored to be a part of your family.”

He never imagined a vampire crying. He has been stripped well enough of his own emotions for the notion to be difficult. He bears his tragedies on firm shoulders. But this is so far from a tragedy, something Geralt’s not faced ever before, such a simple sudden relief that he can’t help laughing, eyes wet, as he kisses the tears from Regis’ eyes.

“Geralt I adore you.” Regis says, “I-- I don’t have the words.”

Geralt laughs, happy and relieved. “If I knew that’s what would leave you wordless, I would’ve told you I loved you the moment we met in Beauclair.”

Regis kisses him of his own volition. It feels like benediction.

“A long time?” he asks.

“I realised what I lost at Stygga. But then, it was too late. Or so I thought. I didn’t have the time--” he sighs with feeling, pressing his forehead into Regis’ knees.

His hand is soft on his hair. “We have all the time now, should you wish.”

“You’ll never be rid of me,” Geralt warns.

“Geralt,” Regis says in admonishment. Geralt lifts his head to look at him, and at Dettlaff over his shoulder. “You’re pack. You’re family. We’ll never let you go.”

#### -

Geralt’s breath hitches, vibrating the still midday air. His hips twitch up, belly tightening as he chases the sensation of Regis’ fingers inside him, though his legs have long since began to tremble. Heat crowds his mind, filling it with cotton. What remains of his senses is preoccupied by the torturous pleasure Regis gives him by twisting his fingers inside, the feeling of Dettlaff’s shirt where he’s clawing at him in a desperate attempt to hold onto something, and the desperate need to touch his cock which pools precome all over his belly.

Regis has situated himself between his legs what feels hours ago, and there’s a smirk on his face, self-satisfied and patient, as if he enjoys just looking at Geralt slowly losing his mind. The pads of his fingers have begun alternating between striking those sweet spots inside him and rubbing them until Geralt’s twitching, just on the edge of coming. He retreats then, drawing him away from that edge until he can do it all over again. It’s a hellish cycle. There’s no use trying to tighten around Regis’ fingers, no use begging--Geralt knows Regis will take his time to do this properly.

Geralt’s never regretted not having occassional anal sex more than now. It’s a ridiculous thought, one he would laugh at if he’d have a mind able to focus on anything but the two vampires holding him down to the bed.

Dettlaff’s hand is kind where it brushes his hair out of his forehead, petting him, his thighs sturdy under Geralt’s head. His other hand strays only as far as his chest, but even that is electrifying when he gets close to orgasm. He scratches over his chest, digging his fingers into the muscle, twists his nipples and tugs them in sharp, quick movements, which send shanks of pleasure right down his spine.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Geralt’s aware this is the most undressed he’s seen both of them. Regis is only in his britches after all, and he’s barely seen of Dettlaff anything but a wrist, while now he’s undone the top buttons of his shirt for comfort. Geralt would celebrate, really, perhaps do something about it even if he weren’t so undone.

Geralt gasps again, and can’t catch his breath afterwards though his lungs burn, working overtime. Another shiver passes through his body, and he wants to take a hold of his cock, strip himself roughly until he’s coming all over himself, but Regis has told him to keep his hands to himself, and Dettlaff has already shown that he’d _keep_ his hands up if he didn’t control himself. So all he can really do is grab onto Dettlaff’s shirt and knee, and whine into his mouth each time he bends down to kiss him.

Regis adds another finger, spreading Geralt on four, and Geralt grunts, ticking his thighs further apart for better access.

“For the fuck’s sake,” he pants, feeling both amused and helpless. “What sort of thing are you packing that requires _this_ much prep?”

Regis chuckles against his thigh where he’s been mouthing the soft skin of his inseam. It’s a fucking sigh, to look down and see him there. Geralt feels his cock twitching just at the image, just because it’s Regis, and he still can't quite believe he gets to have him.

“Wouldn’t want to hurt you,” Regis replies.

“Regis.” Geralt huffs out a laugh, before he says, “Get your dick in me.”

Regis seems to consider it as he lifts himself up on his knees, letting his hand trail down Geralt’s thigh, before he finally pulls his fingers out of him. He wipes his hand against the sheets, reaches to undo the buttons of his britches, and pushes them down enough to free his rather hefty cock. It rests, warm, in the crook of his hip, and Regis shifts his hips to rub it over Geralt’s skin. That’s when Geralt realises Regis’ cock is far from human. Instead, the tip is pointed, the shaft curved and ridged, with something like a knot at the base.

“Oh,” Geralt says, and it’s very nearly a gasp. The realisation sends heat right to the pit in his belly, and he feels himself twitching all over. He needs that inside him.

He looks up at Dettlaff who seems amused, and Geralt can’t help wondering what the hell _he’s_ packing in his trousers.

“Ready?” Regis asks, and Geralt looks down between his legs again, where Regis is oiling up his cock. He wipes his hand over the sheets again, none too bothered, and grabs Geralt’s thighs.

Frail as he looks, Regis is strong, and Geralt is reminded of it now, when he realises he won’t be able to close his legs until Regis lets him. It’s a damn arousing thought.

Geralt nods, throat clicking when he says, “Yeah.”

Geralt’s never had any particular issue with male lovers, only that he let his interests and attentions rest with professionals. Bedding men is a nice change of pace to bedding women, especially when he’s got that once-a-year itch to be fucked into the sheets until he’s exhausted. The sex workers at Passiflora came the closest, but never quite managed, even two at the time.

Geralt is under no illusion that he’ll be having the same problems now. Then again, Geralt’s never been a shrinking violet, but feeling Regis push inside him is so startlingly different he can’t help but grab Dettlaff’s hand. The vampire returns the grip, bending down to kiss him again, before he kisses his cheek, his temple, and his forehead.

Regis has barely put the head of his cock inside him, but the ridges just underneath feel so good, rubbing against his rim, that Geralt can’t help relaxing quicker, letting Regis sink in further. He’s deceptively tapered, so it’s easy at first, satisfying to feel himself getting stretched. Regis halts on occasion, pulling out only to push further in, but also to let Geralt feel all the ridging on the underside of his cock that makes him twitch, and eager to take him.

Geralt is ridiculously aware of how loud his breath is in the room. His heartbeat in his ears is far too quick, but he can’t help it, especially when he really starts stretching him with his girth. He can feel the swelling--the _knots_ \--just before Regis pushes them inside.

“Oh fuck.” It’s punched out of him, more than anything, when Geralt realises the swelling is pushing right up against his prostate. His cock twitches, now desperately red, needing attention, though he’s already come on Regis’ fingers.

“Regis--” Geralt starts, about to urge him on, but he moves of his own volition before he needs to, making Geralt lose his train of thought. He grinds slowly inside him, humming, so pleased that he seems overwhelmed by pleasure as well, eyes at half-mast just looking at him. Geralt never thought somebody’s look could be overwhelming, but Regis comes damn close.

Finally, he pushes the rest of his cock inside him, the swelling on the underside locking him in. Regis doesn’t move immediately when he sinks inside him completely. He lingers, pleasure evident on his face. He hums which turns into a soft rumble, before he pulls out a little just to grind that thick base back inside Geralt.

“You’re so warm around me,” he rumbles, sounding so pleased that Geralt trembles from it. “You like when I grind inside you don’t you? I can feel you tightening around me every time I do.”

Geralt isn’t used to sitting back and letting others do all the work. It feels good to melt for a change as he nods, making Regis smirk, pleased.

Regis starts moving like that, barely pulling out and grinding inside him, holding him under the knees with a strong grip, and Geralt surrenders to the pleasure of it, to the overwhelming nature of Regis’ kind of loving. He doesn’t even realise he’s moaning until he’s saying Regis’ name, over and over again, a mantra in the air. In all accounts, this shouldn’t get him as hot as it does, but he’s fairly sure he can feel Regis in his _throat_ , he’s so deep inside him.

How long they float like that he isn’t sure, only that even Regis seems to lose his patience after a while. He keeps pulling out more and more, and each time he drives back inside him it’s with more force behind it. Pleasure suits his face, twisting it into a pained, almost confused expression Geralt wishes he could kiss off his face.

The bed creaks, the noise of their bodies slamming back together perverse and incendiary. If this is what he should expect of both of them, Geralt’s hips will be dislocated by the end of the day, but it’ll be damn worth it.

“Regis,” Geralt says, “Regis, I’m--fuck--”

Regis grunts and leans forward, finally, though it bends Geralt in half, and leans down to kiss him. Gods, Geralt thinks, closing his eyes. He lets go of Dettlaff so he can wrap his hands around Regis, one in his hair, the other around his shoulder. THe kiss can’t last, not with Regis moving, broken by gasps and moans as Regis rutts into him with the same sort of desperate finality Geralt senses wash over him.

His cock is trapped between their bellies, and he won’t last, not at all. Regis kisses his temples, his jaw, mouthing down at his neck, and something about it sets Geralt off. He comes silently, with a gasp, rolling his head up, toes curling as he trembles, shooting between them.

Regis doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away. He keeps grinding inside of him instead, urging him on until Geralt’s sensitive, twitching each time he does so, but so come-drunk that he can’t find it in himself to protest.

“Beautiful,” he hears, and it’s Dettlaff. Geralt feels warm from it. He feels held, in the best way possible. Taken care of. Safe.

Regis, however, pulls away eventually, though he’s still hard. Geralt wants to whine but feels too embarrassed to do so willingly, and swallows it down as he focuses his eyes on Regis, only to watch him lick Geralt’s spend off of his belly.

Already, Geralt feels his libido rearing its head. He can smell the fresh wave of want coming off of him, and the vampires must smell it too, because Regis grins, and pushes back inside him.

Geralt whimpers, and feels his cheeks burn for it. But he can’t help it. He’s overwhelmed completely and thoroughly. Holding onto Dettlaff’s his only achor.

Regis rolls his hips leisurely, now finding the time to touch his cock. He ignores the way Geralt hisses, and huffs, and strokes him until he’s hard all over again.

“There we go,” he hums, pleased, and releases him. His hand passes over Geralt’s belly, which he reflexively tightens when he feels his nails, sharper now then they were before. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realises Dettlaff can control their appearance. Now, they’re sharp and leaving white lines across his skin. His nail skid down to the inside of his thigh where his hip meets his leg. Geralt shivers.

“He’s so responsive,” Dettlaff notes.

Regis’ hum of appreciation comes at a cost of his hips ticking and rolling up, making Geralt gasp, as if to just prove the point.

“The scent of your pleasure is sweetness on my tongue,” Regis tells him. It sounds as it comes from somewhere else, a phrase perfectly translated but sourced from another language. It doesn’t stop it from beating a blush into his cheeks.

“Get on with it,” he ends up saying, with no force behind it.

Regis acknowledges this and pulls out just to flip Geralt onto his belly, landing him straight into Dettlaff’s lap. Geralt barely has the time to get his knees under him before Regis fucks back inside him, the curve of his cock such that it rubs against his prostate at a constant until Regis is completely inside him again. Geralt twitches, trembling.

“Like that?” Regis asks.

Geralt doesn’t have the mind to reply. He clutches Dettlaff’s thighs as Regis rams back inside of him, trying desperately not to drool over his nice, fitted pants. It’s an effort, considering Regis has decided to stop teasing and actually fuck him, pace quick and unforgiving, holding his hips up, thumbs holding Geralt’s cheek open so he can sink in all the way.

Dettlaff’s hand is in his hair, pushing it out of his face, and Geralt realises, quite belatedly, the hardness in front of him.

His fingers are awkward around the buttons, uncoordinated and unused to it. Still, he manages to unbutton him, to take his cock out, breathing in the pure scent of his arousal. Dettlaff smells good, too good, even on regular days. Now, Geralt’s mouth fills with saliva. A good thing too. Dettlaff’s thick, both up and under, the head of his cock big and leaking. When Geralt wraps his hand around him, feeling the ridging on the top and the sides.

“You don’t have to,” Dettlaff says, quiet, but desire curls in his voice, desire Geralt’s never heard quite like this before.

“Hold my hair,” is all Geralt says in reply before he starts moving his hand, jerking him off. He’d have kept it tied, but Dettlaff insisted in running his hands though it.

It’s been a damn long time since Geralt’s sucked cock, and he has no idea if he can take any inside his throat anymore, but he’s damn well going to try. He licks Dettlaff’s cock, sucks on the head, licks around the crown, feeling him twitch over and over again, leaking precome all over his tongue. His hand has buried itself in Geralt’s roots, holding his hair, and head, tightly.

Geralt feels pleasure curl in the base of his spine again. He wants to do this properly, but with Regis doing a fine attempt at fucking his damn brains out, he can barely do anything else except suck the first couple of inches into his mouth, working his hand over the rest.

Between Regis and Dettlaff he can barely breathe, but that too proves to carry pleasure in and of itself. Geralt’s enthusiastic at least, tongue pressing against the underside of his cock even as Dettlaff’s head nudges against his palate, striking it every time Geralt bobs his head.

“Oh, that’s--” he hears behind him, and feels Regis twitching inside. Suddenly, he’s pressing Geralt’s hips lower, snapping his own so hard Geralt can’t help but groan and whimper at once.

Above him Dettlaff hisses, and the hand in his hair tightens, pulling him back onto his cock. Geralt almost chokes, but it sends such a sweet fresh gust of pleasure to his cock, now rubbing against the sheets, that he knows he’s going to come again soon.

Dettlaff fucks his mouth, pulling him onto his cock with an increasing urgency, the same one that Geralt can feel in Regis and himself. He comes like that, pinned, and feels Regis trembling inside him, before he’s bending over his back to moan his release into his ear. He doesn’t pull out, no, he fills him up, balls deep, and stays still like that, holding it all inside him. Dettlaff comes soon after, with a feverish groan on his tongue. He pulls Geralt off his cock just a moment before stripping his face with come.

Geralt pants, feeling Dettlaff’s muscles twitch under his hand. Then he licks his cock again, sucking the crown until the vampire’s shuddering. Dettlaff doesn’t grow soft though. It makes Geralt shiver, realising this is just the start.

Regis is kissing his shoulders, his back, and Geralt closes his eyes, trying to enjoy the moment for what it is.

Regis murmurs something to Dettlaff who stands, gently prying Geralt off his lap. In the time he’s absent, Regis cleans Geralt’s face up with his tongue--something that’d be disgusting if it weren’t so arousing--and kisses him like that, licking Dettalff’s spend into his mouth, making him taste his need.

“Good?” Regis asks, and Geralt huffs out a laugh.

“Better,” he replies, which makes Regis chuckle into his ear.

“Want Dettlaff to fuck you?”

Geralt groans. He gets up on shaky hands, and sits up, looking to where Dettlaff has stripped and is folding his clothes. He swallows. He doesn’t remember the last time he got so greedy.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” he tells Regis who chuckles, and wraps his hands from behind him, coaxing him to sit on the bed and relax back into his chest. Regis is sturdy and comfortable and the mouth of his neck is making him shiver all over.

Dettlaff doesn’t waste time. He prowls back to the bed, and leans down to kiss him. Regis hums, pleased, and grabs Geralt’s thighs, holding them spread open in invitation. Geralt feels heat wash over him again, though his cock lays only half-hard. Come, _Regis’_ come, leaks out of him onto the ruined sheets.

“Come on, mess me up,” he says amused and needy at once.

Dettlaff grabs the vial of lube and coats his cock with it, before he’s pressing it to his hole. He makes a soft noise as he pushes inside him, one that grows until he’s completely inside him, and Dettlaff’s huffing against his collarbone.

“He smells so--”

“I know,” Regis says, with equal amounts of wonder.

“Ours,” Dettlaff finishes. Regis makes a noise, needy and high-pitched, and pleased, and Dettlaff kisses him across Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt realises there’s no other place he’d rather be, than stuck between these two.

Dettlaff moves slowly, deep within him, and Geralt melts back into Regis’ chest, feeling sparks dance all across his skin. To watch, Dettlaff is mesmerising. His sperm brow only grows more concentrated, his lips opening up not to breathe but to suck in the scents between them, tasting them on his tongue. Geralt pushes a hand through his dark hair, just to watch those pale eyes of his calculate, look at him, hold him in his gaze, before he kisses him, despair and want mixing in a dizzying concoction. His hips start moving with more urgency, before he stills with a huff.

“I can’t move like this,” he says, pulling out.

Geralt whines, unable to catch it in his throat, and his cheeks burn even when Dettlaff touches him, kissing him with reassurance. Geralt realises, quite suddenly, that he’s going to be spoiled for choice after these two. They are going to ruin him.

Regis releases him, doing little else but rubbing his thighs until they’ve finished kissing. Then he says, “Come on Geralt, turn towards me.”

At first Geralt thinks he too wants to kiss so he turns on his hip, capturing his lips in his own. Regis hums, pleased, and moves back until he’s lying down and Geralt’s lying over him. His hands go to Geralt’s hips, then to his ass, spreading him, and Geralt realises his position a moment before Dettlaff’s fingers brush against his hole.

He hums, voice deep and rich, and says, “One day, you’ll be able to take us both.”

Geralt shivers, his cock twitching where it’s pressed against Regis’ hip. Dettlaff wastes no time afterwards, just pushes his cock back inside, and lets out a satisfied little rumble before he begins fucking him with vigor.

Geralt thinks he can hold on, but sooner than he expects his legs are shaking from pleasure, muscles spasming each time Dettlaff’s cock spreads him. He’s so big that he’s putting pressure on his walls constantly, the ridges just so damn good where they rub all the sweet spots inside him. Then he does something with his hips so he’s driving down into Geralt, nailing his prostate.

Geralt’s hands scramble over Regis’ chest as he gasps his pleasure into his neck. If Dettlaff continues like this, Geralt won’t last, at all.

“He’s good at that isn’t he?” Regis asks, pleased.

He guides Geralt’s chin up and licks into his mouth, rendering him breathless. Regis kisses him like he needs him, like he’s the best goddamn thing that happened to him this side of the century, like he craves every sound Geralt can’t hold back. Geralt loves him so much, he thinks his chest might burst from it.

Then he sneaks his hand lower and wraps it around Geralt’s cock, and Geralt groans against his mouth.

“Next time,” Regis promises, “I want this inside me. Need to feel you come while Dettlaff fucks you.”

It’s too much. Geralt shivers, and Regis chuckles.

“You’re beautiful like this, hopped up on pleasure. We’d keep you like this, always, if you only let us.”

“Regis,” he starts, and kisses him, unable to formulate words. That sounds more than Geralt deserves. It sounds like everything he wants.

Dettlaff’s hips stutter when he leans down, pushing away Geralt’s hair to kiss his shoulder. Geralt has only the time to look at Regis who smiles at him, kind and loving, before Dettlaff sinks his fangs into his shoulder.

Geralt comes instantly, the surge of pleasure and need so overwhelming he can’t do much but moan, grasping onto Regis to keep himself tethered. He tightens around Dettlaff as Regis’ hand milks his cock, wringing out everything he can give until he’s whining but unable to move away. If he bucks back it’ll be into Dettlaff’s cock, and if he drives forward he’d be coming back to his hand. It’s the sweetest sort of torture.

Dettlaff doesn’t drink, just licks the wound closed, but his cock twitches as if he too feels what Geralt feels. Maybe he does. Maybe he gets off on it, just like Geralt. But Geralt can’t think, he can’t, especially not now, and he melts into Regis as Dettlaff rides his orgasm inside him, pressing against his back, holding him tightly.

#### -

Eventually, Geralt’s moved again. His head swims from Dettlaff’s venom. It courses through his veins like fisstech, making him both absent, mind swimming in pleasure, and present, body overactive. Dettlaff lays next to them, kisses Geralt, while Regis fucks him again. When he’s filled him up, grounded all that come into his sloppy, used hole, Regis pushes him onto his back and eats him out until Geralt’s legs are trembling, and he’s begging Regis to stop or to do something, to fuck again at least, while Dettlaff’s hand touches his cock, slow and unhirried.

Geralt loses track of the hour, of the times he’s come, of the times he’s fucked, until he’s doing little else but trembling, sunk so deep in pleasure he feels he won’t ever surface from beneath the waves. It’s not a bad place to be, not when he’s not alone, and they’re there to take care of him. Gods, he never had that before. He never thought he needed it as much as he does.

After some time, when Geralt’s body has finally given up, Regis settles next to him, Dettlaff behind him, and he’s held while Regis whispers heartfelt confessions into his mouth, hiding them in all the corners of his body for safekeeping. They’re words Geralt’s always wanted to hear, that he feels he’ll die if he forgets.

But it seems common tongue fails Regis, and he slips into something primal, something his own, rough jagged vowels flowing with feeling as he says, “Cara thu, cecha thu, flere, mine hels thi. Hel me lur thau mutna.”

It must be due to the connection with them that Geralt hears the unfamiliar words, yet the meaning slowly becomes clear. _Beloved one,_ Regis is saying, _holy one, god, you are ours, until the world has gone to its tomb._

“Mine cau thini acazr.”  
  
_We are your grave ornaments._

Dettlaff rumbles behind him, squeezing Geralt into his hands. “Ura thau turza. Mine chaer sle ipei tusurthir.”

_Time is our offering, and in death, we’ll rest in the same urn._

Vampires feel deeply, he remembers. Deeply, madly. There’s an ultimate truth to their words, unequivocally honest. It’s unconditional love. He understands now, how this could’ve been overwhelming to others, but to Geralt, it feels like finally laying in a soft bed after years of sleeping on the ground.

Geralt closes his eyes and rests.


End file.
